


Diamonds are Forever

by paleolithic_demitasse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (see what I did there), Bond Night, Bondathon, Bonding, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 14:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5209745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleolithic_demitasse/pseuds/paleolithic_demitasse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock embark on a Bond 'watch'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diamonds are Forever

**Author's Note:**

> [Hanna](http://thetiptoeingtulip.tumblr.com)! This is for you! Because it's your birthday! You beautiful tropical fish, I hope this is to your liking. <3
> 
> **Note** : Contains **major spoilers** for a few James Bond films, so if y'all haven't seen any of them (a crime!), then don't say you weren't warned.
> 
> Also, **disclaimer** : I don't own BBC Sherlock or the Eon Productions James Bond films (duh).
> 
> Enjoy!

**HOUR 1**

“Alright, we’ve got popcorn, jaffa cakes—”

“—a disgusting amount of beer—”

“—and I’ve ordered takeout for dinner. I’d say we’re set for an evening with James Bond.”

Not looking up from his laptop screen, Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes. There was only one reason he was entertaining this ridiculous ‘Bond night’, as John had insisted on calling it. Over the span of not quite two months, John Watson had saved his life (probably), assisted him on his cases (mostly), and given him compliments that still made Sherlock’s head spin (definitely). Moreover, John had given him the one thing that no one else had been able or willing to all of Sherlock’s life: friendship. It still confounded Sherlock that John had stayed for as long as he had; he laboured under no delusions about the fact that he was unpleasant company, to say the least. Flatshares were always tricky, but somehow, with John it had just _worked_. Better than that, Sherlock was beginning to suspect that he was at an all-time high (not literally; when John had come into his life the drugs had just about left – he hadn’t even touched a cigarette for months).

Sherlock Holmes was not a man who was used to being in debt. At least, not the kind of debt that couldn’t be repaid in money or favours, let alone the kind that words had never expressed and that the receiving party seemed unaware of. And yet, here he was, indebted to John for things he was still trying to understand, about to watch an inane number of hours of terrible action films.

John was busy trying to get his first DVD set up. “We begin our Bondathon—” he started to say, but was interrupted by a particularly incredulous noise from his companion. Sherlock’s face fell, and it took a great deal of effort to force his jaw not to do the same.

“John, if we’re going to be spending the evening on a James Bond ‘watch’, please try to refer to it with a name that doesn’t make me cringe.”

“Let me finish.” John chuckled, “If you think that’s bad… well. This is going to be very painful for you and very amusing for me, because there is far worse to come.”

A look of true fear drained the little colour left in Sherlock’s face.

Shaking his head, John tried not to laugh. “Now, like I was saying. We’re going to start at the beginning of the Bond films themselves. You can’t go wrong with _Dr. No_. They’re all classics, but this one is really where it all began.”

Sherlock held back a bored sigh for John’s sake. This was obviously something he was (painfully) passionate about, and who was Sherlock to put a damper on that?

John inserted the disc he had been carefully extracting from an uncharacteristically expensive looking box set in the DVD player. Sitting on the floor next to John was a James Bond Blu-ray/DVD Collection, plastered with phrases synonymous to ‘limited edition’ and ‘one-of-a-kind’ and ‘made especially for mindless cinema consumerists and nostalgists’. Sherlock dreaded to think about the hours of exclusive, remastered content that John might subject him to. Supressing the urge to shudder, Sherlock turned his gaze-cum-glare away from John’s DVDs.

As John struggled with the DVD player, Sherlock tapped out an update on his blog forum. ‘ _As per John’s suggestion on his blog at **www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk** , I’m about to embark on a James Bond ‘watch’_’. That should do it. Now John carried full responsibility for the evening’s activities, and Sherlock had shown adequate disinterest in the subject to convey how ridiculous he thought the whole debacle was.

Just as Sherlock was beginning to hope that perhaps this evening would be spent more productively than by watching what John promised would be at least a quarter of a day’s worth of James Bond films, John let out a cry of success. He had at last bested the ancient DVD player that normally slept beneath the equally outdated television set, but had been bullied into wakefulness by an eager Bond fanatic. Said fanatic was now standing up to turn off the lights in living room, sparing a glance at the DVD player as he did so. It was quietly whirring to itself, no doubt struggling to replicate its original function after long months of disuse. John switched on the TV that he add dragged out from Missus Hudson alone knew where that was now sitting on the table on the left of the fireplace. Sherlock liked to believe that he had more important things to do with his time than watch films, and the entire television set had been gathering dust, ignored.

All thoughts of intelligent decisions he had made in the past were swiftly banished as John returned to his chair, which he had pushed back and changed the angle of earlier in order to better see the TV screen. John paused to grin at Sherlock. “Relax, this is meant to be fun. Oh, and put your laptop away.”

“What.” Suddenly, hell was a worryingly tangible concept.

It was John’s turn to roll his eyes. “Honestly, Sherlock, it’s not the end of the world. If you’re _really_ suffering after, say, two films, you can have it back.”

Inhaling sharply, Sherlock tried not to pout as he closed his laptop and deposited it on the coffee table.

“Thank you.” John shook his head slightly, still smiling.

For both their sakes, Sherlock remained silent, choosing to simply roll his eyes and redirect his attention towards the television screen.

John managed to contain his excitement for 20 whole seconds before his face split into a grin as the most ridiculous artistic representation of a gunbarrel that Sherlock had ever seen moved across the screen, following the figure of a man who he assumed was the famous James Bond. As the man reached screen-centre, he turned with all the elegance of a dying animal and fired. Comically unrealistic, transparent red blood cascaded down the image and John turned towards Sherlock to grin delightedly at him, as if to say _so it begins!_

That was the moment that Sherlock knew without a doubt that he was in far, far over his head.

Realising that John was still looking at him, Sherlock offered him a tight smile that he hoped didn’t convey too much of the utter contempt he was feeling for these Bond films he had agreed to spend his evening with. John seemed satisfied that he had got a response at all, and turned to watch the flashing dots of the title sequence. Despite the resigned scorn growing in Sherlock’s heart, he smiled as John hummed softly along to the music. Sherlock could have sworn he had heard it before, somewhere, but dismissed it as the remnant of a deleted memory, rightfully removed as soon as it had been formed.

Colourful moving dots changed into the title as John began to move his head in time with the music as Sherlock resisted the urge to shake his own. _Dr. No_.

_Fantastic. What an auspicious start. With an intellectual title like that, how could one expect to find any fault in what promises to be a cinematic feat of directorial acumen and—_

Probably sensing that Sherlock’s thoughts were getting progressively negative and sarcastic, John tried to draw his attention back to the film. “By the end of our Bond night you’ll know this theme off by heart.” he laughed. _I sincerely hope not_ , Sherlock thought. Nonetheless, he played along and nodded slowly in false agreement. This caused John to laugh even more, seeing through his façade immediately. The thought of someone, of John, knowing him that well was enough to put a genuine smile on his face, which John took as a sign that Sherlock was ready to immerse himself in the Bond experience.

This idea was further removed from the truth than Sherlock’s interest was in James Bond.

Two minutes (although they could easily have been years) later, after the longest title sequence Sherlock had ever seen in his life, the detective decided to make it his personal mission to articulate every reasonable fault in this ridiculous movie that he could find. The fastest way to encourage Sherlock Holmes to construct a vendetta against anyone or anything was to bore him to death, and what had felt like an entire film’s length of opening credits was more than enough to do just that.

“The cigarette in Bond’s mouth was in his hand that was resting on the shoe in the last shot. He’s removing it again now, and look at that, the camera cuts to his hand back on the shoe.”

“There’s a boom light effect obviously visible in the reflection of the painting above that mantelpiece.”

“The gun Bond was just given is a Walther PP, not a Walther PPK.”

“Bond’s hat has moved hook on the rack it’s on.”

“Bond was picked up from the airport in a 1957 Chevrolet, but that speedometer is from the instrument panel of 1957 Ford. He’s also changed seats twice since his departure from the airport. Speaking of errors with car models, the car behind Bond was a 1961 Chevrolet Impala pillared sedan at the airport but is now a 4-door pillarless sedan.”

“Bond just pulled back with his right arm but hit the chauffeur with his left.”

“The blood on the carpet has changed pattern since the death of Strangway’s P.A.”

“When Bond first entered his hotel room, there was a green bottle next to the one labelled vodka. It’s disappeared. Additionally, the contents of that table have reversed position exactly, objects that were on the left moving to the right and vice versa, including the brief case that Bond placed talcum powder on and the perfume bottles on the desk that have been replaced by a magazine.”

“There’s obviously some kind of glass between Bond’s shoulder and the spider; his skin is pressed against it, and the spider doesn’t move when his shoulder does. Also, the actor whose shoulder is in the shot is a stand-in with more muscular arms than the one who’s been playing Bond for the rest of the film.”

“The tires of the two cars are screeching but they’re driving on a dirt road.”

“The hearse chasing Bond was a 1938 Lasalle, but the vehicle that fell of that cliff was a later model, which is clearly visible as the burning car rolls down the hill. The headlights are mounted flush into the fenders, which wasn’t the case for the ’38 Lasalle.”

At that point, Joh turned away from the screen, looking neither upset nor cross but impossibly patient, which was somehow worse. “Sherlock. I get it. These films are old and they’re far from perfect, but this is meant to be a bit of fun. If fun for you is picking out the continuity errors and slip-ups, that’s fine, but keep them to yourself, yeah?”

Sherlock fell silent, looking down at the ground for a moment to avoid meeting John’s eyes before refocusing his attention on the television. He missed the fond shake of John’s head and the smile on his face before he turned back, wide-eyed, to the film.

 

**HOUR 2**

James Bond rang the doorbell of 239 Magenta Drive after following a set of directions Sherlock hadn’t bothered to even try remembering, although he was firm in the belief that if it had been for one of his own cases, he would have had no trouble in doing so.

Suddenly, the ring of another doorbell filled the flat, muffled by the film.

“That better be our Indian food,” grumbled John, glancing at his watch, “that’s already twenty minutes late.” Sherlock said nothing, his attention on the screen, pointedly ignoring the laughable failure of continuity that was the angle of the blinds in and outside the house.

John took a long swing of the beer he had grabbed from the fridge at some point, Sherlock hadn’t registered when exactly that had been. Sighing, John stood up and strode briskly towards the door. He hadn’t asked Sherlock to pause the film and Sherlock hadn’t offered, and so 007 continued his dialogue with Miss Taro, which was rapidly maturing into a far more adult form of conversation.

Soon after, John returned with two plastic bags diffusing the mouth-watering odour of good Indian food into the flat. “I’ve got dinner.” He announced to what might as well have been an empty flat for all the attention Sherlock gave him. Well, an empty flat apart from the sound of James Bond in the background. A warm comfort for a cold evening. _In some people’s opinion_ , amended Sherlock mentally.

“You’re welcome.” John called over his shoulder as he continued into the kitchen to put food on plates, a step which Sherlock was quite fond of missing when the responsibility of food fell to him.

“Oh, don’t worry Sherlock, I’m quite alright, but it’s so kind of you to offer to help.” John carried on with an increasingly sarcastic tone of voice.

“Mh-hm.” was all the response Sherlock was willing to offer.

John came back into the living room with two plates of food that Sherlock had to admit were sufficient distraction from the film to look up at John and offer him a smile of thanks. Victorious in his quest for recognition of effort, John grinned back at him, presenting Sherlock with what passed as a healthy dinner at 221b Baker Street.

Grabbing another beer before settling back down into his chair, John was the focus of Sherlock’s attention as he relaxed back into the obvious nostalgia that the Bond films brought on for him. Sherlock found it fascinating to watch (and without a doubt far more interesting than the films themselves). Sherlock spent a good portion of the movie watching John’s reactions to what he was informed were ‘iconic’ moments in cinema history. However, he kept a metaphorical eye on the plot of the film, just to see if it even began to compare to John’s high opinion of it.

By the end of the film, Sherlock’s attention was divided between John and the film, looking from one to the other until they began to blur together. As the credits began to roll, Sherlock was shaking his head in disdain for the preposterous _everything_ of the film, but with a fond smile for John’s excited expression as he asked “so what did you think?”

“I thought…” Sherlock began, looking for gentle words to describe what he had just watched, “that your reactions to the film far surpassed any of what was actually going on.” That was not what he had been planning on saying, a fact which was reflected in the surprise on John’s face. His raised eyebrows and wide eyes spoke words that Sherlock did not want to hear. Refusing to show any sign of embarrassment, Sherlock continued “But it was well and truly one of the most ridiculous films I have ever watched.”

The surprise left John’s expression, replaced by a sly grin. “Well, I suppose that means we’ll just have to watch another one.”

 

**HOUR 3**

_“Goldfinger, he’s the man, the man with the Midas touch!”_

After clearing away the dishes they had been using for dinner, John explained that although he was ‘loath to miss out the pure genius that is _From Russia with Love_ ’ they couldn’t watch them all tonight. Sherlock’s spirits were lifted by this, and he encouraged John to skip as many films as he deemed necessary, and maybe even a couple more. John gave him A Look.

And so, here he was, enduring another ridiculously long title sequence. Although, Sherlock had to concede that it was a decent move to not have the same title sequence for each of the films. Otherwise he might well have died of boredom before the end of what he approximated to be the third hour of their Bond watch had finished. This would have been A Bit Not Good, as John would have been unimpressed by that turn of events, mostly because it would interrupt whichever film had been dull enough to cause his untimely demise. What a relief that would have been…

Alas. He was stuck here, computer confiscated for the length of another film, with no chance of distraction outside of his own mind. Sherlock watched with a glazed, detached expression as James Bond theatrically threatened a fat German-sounding Brit who had made minimal efforts in disguising his attempts to defraud his opponent in their game of cards.

As the film continued, Sherlock made a quiet point of observing as many errors has he could, but soon found that half the fun had been dressing them up as complaints in order to introduce them to John. Without an audience, it soon became a tedious undertaking rather than enjoyable distraction. Plus, between the blunder concerning the optimal temperature of champagne and the fact that is was simply not possible to die from epidermal asphyxia as it was portrayed in the film (that is, where the victim is covered in gold paint with no mention of other signs of violence), there were too many to keep track of. At least, that’s what Sherlock told himself.

It had nothing to do with the fact that picking out these faults made watching the Bond films less fun, because that was something Sherlock was having none of.

Over the course of the next half hour or so, Sherlock vacantly registered the progress of 007 as he made his way from Miami Beach to London to Switzerland. Sherlock noted with faint admiration that these places, as far as he could tell, were filmed on location, but wasn’t impressed enough to pay more attention that strictly necessary for a basic understanding of the plot.

At one point, John twisted his body around to face Sherlock. He had that delighted, fanatic grin on his face again, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows in answer to John’s shift of focus towards him, a wordless question followed by silent anticipation.

“This,” John said slowly, “is one of the most iconic scenes in all of the James Bond films, so please, please, pay at least a little bit of attention.” His final words were punctuated with laughter as he turned back towards the television.

Sherlock huffed at John’s assumptions about how little regard he had been paying the films (and the fact that his assumption was, for the most part, correct).

 _“Good evening, 007.”_ It was the large British-not-German gold smuggler, Goldfinger. (What a disappointment of a titular character, honestly. Not that he’d ever say so to John.)

_“My name is James Bond.”_

_“And members of your curious profession are few in number…”_

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes at the antagonist’s confident exposition and the hero’s witty banter, Sherlock suffered through the scene in silence by watching the growing excitement on John’s face. His face looked so much younger, so much happier – nothing like the crippled army doctor he had met in that lab in Saint Barts only two months ago – that Sherlock’s face almost softened into a smile. Almost.

_“Do you expect me to talk?”_

“No, Mister Bond! I expect you to die!” John said in perfect synchronisation with the film. A grin that reached his ears spread across John’s face as Sherlock laughed (not giggled, as John would later claim) sincerely.

 

**HOUR 4**

An hour. Less, in fact. Something like fifty minutes was all that was left before Sherlock could reclaim his laptop and find something interesting, practical and important to do as John continued to watch his films. He sighed deeply, something that was not ignored by John who turned to give him an irritated, squinty-eyed look before returning his focus to James Bond either flirting with or establishing dominance over the blonde pilot woman. Sherlock honestly couldn’t tell the difference between the two at that point; the character seemed to have more or less the same ritual for both, consisting of cringe-worthy one-liners and excessive flattery. It was worth noting, however, that when Bond was talking to villains he wasn’t trying to seduce, the flattery tended to be directed towards himself.

 There was only one thing for it: mind palace. It was incredibly unlikely that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to find something to occupy him, some information (old or new) to analyse and review. He closed his eyes, trying his best to create an intense focus on his mind in order to overcome the annoying, brash sensory input of the film. Cold cases, too old or too boring. Recent cases, nothing interesting and unsolved. Other bits and pieces not related to The Work, hardly worth thinking about. Especially with the only other focus in his life sitting in a chair in front of him.

Ah, well. It had been a last ditch attempt anyway. Sherlock was well aware that his mind palace was a means of storing large quantities of (relevant) information, not a mental amusement park.

The only thing left to do was actually pay attention to the action unfolding on the television screen, a level to which Sherlock had not quite yet sunk. A frown formed on his face as he realised that the next three quarters of an hour were going to be very, _very_ boring indeed.

Sherlock floated in and out of focus as the film progressed, the plot probably even more tedious, inaccurate and unnecessary than the last one. Not that Sherlock would know; he had been paying less and less attention as the film went on. Just enough to get a feel for the basic story, in case John asked him questions later.

After what felt like numerous years, John addressed Sherlock, too captivated to turn around. “I hope you’re watching, because these last fifteen or so minutes are some of the best of the whole film.” At this, Sherlock immediately perked up, sitting straighter in his seat. Of course, it was the ‘last fifteen minutes’ bit that had him interested. He couldn’t care less about the ‘best of the whole film’ part.

Soon enough, the film drew to a close and Sherlock had to forcibly hold back a sigh of relief as John got up to change the disc. “As much as I adore Sean Connery,” John announced, his back to Sherlock, “you need to see more than just one James Bond during a proper Bondathon. Next up, _On Her Majesty’s Secret Service_!” He turned around to smile at Sherlock, but the look deflated when John saw the laptop that Sherlock had got up and grabbed from where he had deposited it on the coffee table as soon as the film had ended. Pointedly fixated on the small screen in front of him, Sherlock opened his blog and scanned the website slowly so as to not have to look at John’s visible disappointment.

 

**HOUR 5**

Nothing. No cases, no tiresome complaints, not a single word on _The Science of Deduction_. Itching for something to do, Sherlock typed an addition to his earlier post regarding their Bondath— James Bond watch. ‘ _Oh, this is ridiculous_ ’. There, all two James Bond films he had paid any attention to summarised in four words.

He spared a glance up at the screen, immediately regretting his decision. A slapstick disappointment of a fight scene was currently taking place, tacky sound effects and awkward cinematography completely ruining the effect that the fight choreography in the previous films had had. A different director was probably behind this new take on James Bond, as well the new leading actor in the starring role. If Sherlock had any emotional investment in what was going on, he’d have been disappointed at the change. However, this was not the case, and Sherlock was aggressively unaffected by the sudden decline in quality, as some might view it. It wasn’t as if he had an opinion on the subject. Not on the new Bond, not on the altered theme music, not on the car scene that obviously drew elements from the scene in _Goldfinger_ where Bond first encountered the sister of the late Jill Masterson.

Not in the slightest.

Sherlock turned his attention back to his blog. At a loss for anything else to write, he simply added ‘ _Preposterous_ ’ to reinforce his current sentiments towards the Bond films. The next half hour was spent browsing new sites looking for the slightest detail that suggested a case worthy of his regard.

Eventually, Sherlock drifted back to his blog, more out of habit than out of interest or genuine belief that were would be anything new on it. However, this didn’t turn out to be the case, even though the new addition wasn’t actually _a case_.

One of his most consistent (and consistently _irritating_ ) ‘fans’, someone who called themselves ‘theimprobableone’ for reasons Sherlock neither knew nor cared about, had decided that it was important and relevant to comment on his complaints concerning the James Bond films that ‘ _I prefer citizen kane that’s a proper film_ ’. Honestly, give a man the mask of online anonymity and he’ll say all sorts of idiotic nonsense and happily target people who he doesn’t particularly like with an aggression unlike that which can be found in everyday conversations. Sherlock had had quite enough, and his argumentative nature was urging him to make some sort of jab at the prick, but his subtler side and appreciation of human psychology were pointing him in a different direction. Smiling, he tapped out his response.

_Actually, I’m starting to get into this. It’s quite exciting!_

Louis Armstrong was singing in the background of the dullest montage of the most boring romantic relationship Sherlock had ever had the misfortune to watch unfold on a television screen.

But still, one-upmanship was good for the soul. And the mind, and the ego.

Oh, and of course anyone who had the blind arrogance to indirectly insult John by going after his favourite films _on Sherlock’s blog_ would face consequences, whether or not they knew exactly how personal John’s connection with the Bond films was. The fact that Sherlock had done just that was inconsequential – Sherlock knew John, but this imbecile had no idea how brilliant the man he seemed to hold so much contempt for actually was.

A look at said man watching with fascination as James Bond entered the office building of one Professor Gumbold elicited a fond roll of Sherlock’s eyes. Eyes which then lingered on the screen for just a moment too long to be able to convincingly claim disinterest. Once Sherlock had realised this, his focus was quickly shifted back to the laptop in front of him.

However, this left him with only one problem. Sherlock had no clue what to do now. A wealth of potential information at his fingertips and he was fresh out of ideas. There were no cases, no research to be done, no ongoing experiments, nothing.

A noise from in front of him interrupted Sherlock’s conundrum. John had reached for his own laptop. He opened it up, looked intently at the screen for about five minutes then closed it with an air of satisfaction. Frowning, Sherlock tried to figure out what that meant. Mentally going over the things John could have done in five minutes, Sherlock mechanically opened any websites that could act as indicators to show what John had been doing. These were his email, John’s blog and his blog, in that order. Finding nothing on the first two, Sherlock didn’t quite know what to expect as he refreshed the blog forum on _The Science of Deduction_. If he found nothing there, it was entirely possible that John had simply looked up a piece of trivia related to the film or something of the sort. Yet sure enough, there was a new comment from John, on the James Bond thread that Sherlock was beginning to regret ever bringing into existence.

‘ _You’ d enjoy it a bit more if you gave it your full attention._ ’

The space between the apostrophe and the letter d of the word ‘you’d’ spoke great lengths to Sherlock. John was obviously not pleased with his lack of focus. For the sake of keeping up appearances, Sherlock tapped out a characteristic reply of ‘ _Bless you, John, but I don’t think it needs that_ ’ _._ Meanwhile, the real Sherlock Holmes was feeling and probably looking incredibly sheepish for an esteemed and respected smooth-talking consulting detective (the only one, which was probably a good thing considering how high he had set the bar). If John noticed this, he had the decency to pretend otherwise.

After a minute or so of staring blankly at his laptop screen, Sherlock slowly closed his computer and set it to the side, making as little sound as possible in order to not let John know that he had… revised his approach.

Unbeknownst to Sherlock, John smiled wordlessly to himself as he watched ‘Sir Hilary Bray’ get off his train to greet a stern looking Fräulein Irma Bunt (personal secretary to the count) and complain about his travel sickness.

Sherlock crossed his arms and stared at the ceiling, casting occasional glances towards the screen. From what he could see and hear, the producers had really outdone themselves with a helicopter view of the snowy Swiss Alps. Not that this interested Sherlock, it was simply an observation. He turned away from the screen for the umpteenth time, wondering exactly how much longer he would have to endure this. With a stony resolve, Sherlock fidgeted in his seat, determined not to be taken in by the film. His interests where elsewhere, in far more worthwhile places, such as….

Letting go of a long suffering sigh directed more at himself and what he was about to do than at the ridiculous films that were at the root of his suffering, Sherlock grudgingly acknowledged that there was nothing he could do but surrender.

He cast a look at John, who appeared to be very comfortably enjoying the film as he nursed his third (fourth? fifth? – who knew?) bottle of beer. It took less than a minute before inspiration struck, and by inspiration, Sherlock meant admission of defeat.

“I think I need a drink.”

 

**HOUR 6**

“ _Is anything the matter, Sir Hilary?”_

“ _Just a slight stiffness coming on… in the shoulder._ ”

John burst into a fit of giggles, and Sherlock couldn’t help but do the same.

“ _Due to the altitude, no doubt!_ ”

Laughing even harder, John clutched his stomach, as if doing so would make the film somehow less funny. Sherlock just laughed, trying to make out the dialogue being spoken underneath the sound of him and John chuckling.

“This is ridiculous! Was there no… no censorship in the year– whenever this was made?” Sherlock demanded, gesticulating widely, his voice slurred from the many drinks he had drunk in an unhealthily short space of time. It had started with just one, a little alcohol to make the outrageous plot of _On Her Majesty’s Stupid Silliness_ a bit more bearable. That had turned into a second drink, then a third, and soon enough Sherlock had stopped bothering to count. He was a little drunk (make that a little bordering on a lot). Somehow, that seemed to make it far easier to enjoy the laughable story and the absurd exploits of James Bond, who John had informed him was being played by one George Lazenby when Sherlock had finally caved and asked him about it.

“19…” John tried to say around his laughter, “1969. That’s… that was the year _On Her Majesty’s Secret Service_ came out.” Courtesy of the generous quantity of alcohol that John too had consumed, the s’s in the title of the film were long and drawn out, as if John was struggling to get the sound quite right. Sherlock giggled.

“Oo, look! They’ve made it to the ultra-secret underground baddie’s layer. That’s quite a lot of ice and… rock.” laughed John. John wasn’t making very much sense, but Sherlock cackled along with him.

Yes, this was _definitely_ more fun. Even though they weren’t really concentrated on the film, its entertainment value about increased exponentially. Especially when characters suddenly said things without context.

“ _Antisepsis._ ” exclaimed the man named Gunther or Grunther or something, as he and a kilt-clad James Bond entered a small room lit with funny looking purple lights.

“John? _What?_ ” Sherlock’s incredulity made it sound as though he was choking on the word.

“An-ti-sep-sis.” John drawled, trying to emphasize each syllable but only succeeded in sounding undignified and tipsy.  “It means…” John tried to say, gesturing vaguely in front of him, “It means— actually, I have no idea. I think I… used to know, but not anymore?”

“You’re a doctor,” Sherlock huffed, “y’ should know what it means.”

“Enlighten me.” John deadpanned before giggling to himself.

Rolling his eyes exaggeratedly, Sherlock explained. “Means the thing where y’ use antiseptics…” he slowed down, making sure to pronounce the four-syllable word correctly, “to get rid of microorganisms”, at this point Sherlock had given up and the last half of the word slurred into one awkward sound, “that are… bad.”

Sherlock had no doubt that he had explained that perfectly.

 “ _To begin with, I was born without earlobes._ ”

Both men erupted with laughter.

“Oh my God, Sherlock. I can’t believe this. This is meant to be at least a bit serious, but… ‘ _I was born_ _without earlobes_ ’. He’s ‘posed to be a proper villain!” John was apparently re-evaluating some of his own opinions concerning James Bond. Or perhaps he was just incredibly drunk.

This pattern of laughing at particularly silly bits (at least, the parts that fell into this category in the minds of two drunk men) continued for a while. Eventually, it began to calm down as the night went on, but like most quiet things, that didn’t last very long.

“ _Call me… Hilly._ ”

For the first time since their drunken tomfoolery had begun, both Sherlock and John didn’t quite register what had just been said for a second or too. To their inebriated minds (or at least, to Sherlock’s), this development was too ridiculous to be true, even in the context of a film that had the most famous fictional MI6 agent in all of popular culture (according to John) in a kilt and ruffled dress shirt.

John turned his head slowly to look at Sherlock, his eyes as wide as Sherlock’s utter disbelief for the new level to which the script had suddenly sunk. They stared at each other for a moment before disintegrating into laughter which went on for longer than either of them would later like to admit.

It only got worse.

“ _Do you remember when you came here, how you hated chickens?_ ”

The cackling rose from a cacophony to a crescendo.

“ _I have taught you to love chickens._ _To love their flesh, their voice.”_

“John…” Sherlock gasped, tears of mirth in his eyes.

John was too busy laughing to notice that Sherlock had said his name. His eyes were shut and he was laughing silently, body shaking and racked with uncontrollable laughter. It was the happiest Sherlock had ever seen him. As they laughed, Sherlock began to seriously reconsider his contempt for James Bond.

Until: _“And soon you will go home to look after the chickens, which you love so much._ ”

Whatever concentration Sherlock had had on John and his opinions on the Bond films was soon dispelled as he was reminded why they were in such unruly hysterics and their laughter doubled.

The evening was turning out to have been quite a good idea after all.

 

**HOUR 7**

At some point, they moved onto the carpet. As was often the case when a lot of alcohol was involved, clever contraptions such as chairs lost their appeal and became uncomfortable as opposed to practical. Plus, it was a nice carpet.

The film had just reached ‘the beginning of the end’, as John had called it. He had had a bit of a strange face for someone who was talking about what was presumably a big action sequence, but Sherlock was… not quite at his observational zenith.

Fortunately, all he really needed to fixate upon was the film, and there was generally more action than there was substance to the plot. Although admittedly, it was a bit late in the evening for the film’s content (or lack thereof) to be a huge focal point. Sherlock sunk a little deeper into the carpeted floor as he blinked quickly to refocus his blurry eyes on the screen.

“ _Pilot’s name and destination, over._ ”

“ _Zurich, this is Foxtrot Golf Sierra, leading Red Cross helicopter flight. Carrying Red Cross medical supplies to Italy. What’s the trouble? Over._ ”

John moaned in frustration. “Can they just get on with the exciting bits already?”

“Shh!” Sherlock scolded frivolously, not really minding John’s interjection. Nonetheless, he wanted to hear what was going on.

“ _I repeat, we have no record of your flight plan or registration, over._ ”

“ _Then your registrations must be out of date, over._ ”

Ironically, John looked almost as impatient with the film as Sherlock had felt earlier. His leg was bouncing up and down, and he was leaning heavily on the bottom of his chair.

Laughing softly, Sherlock sat up slightly to better talk to his restless friend. “I’m sure…” he began uncertainly, having forgotten how difficult it was to talk properly when intoxicated, “I’m sure they’ll all be shooting each other soon enough.”

John said nothing for a moment, before breaking out into a fit of giggles. “You’re telling me.” he laughed.

They both fell quiet as Draco bluffed his and Bond’s way out of Blofeld’s crosshairs and Tracy Draco, the respectable and esteemed Countess Teresa di Vicenzo, flirted her way into his favour. When all of a sudden:

“ _Helicopters!_ ”

“ _Get our positions covered!_ ”

Sherlock didn’t miss the quiet exclamation of ‘yes!’ that came from John as he pumped his fist in the air, marking the beginning of the action.

Countless explosions, numerous hand-to-hand combats, a death by flamethrower and another by spiky wall decoration, a lot of relentless gunfire, one nasty-looking test tube full of corrosive acid and one Bond theme tune later, John and Sherlock were loudly cheering on James Bond as he pursued Ernst Blofeld, the rat-like leader of the elusive SPECTRE, in a bobsleigh chase that suddenly made contemporary cinema seem dreadfully dull. They whooped and shouted like a pub full of football fanatics watching the World Cup as shots were fired, a grenade was grossly mishandled and a bobsleigh was blown to bits. The fast-paced adrenaline-fueled rush of a fight scene finally climaxed when a Bond and Blofeld’s fisticuffs were cut short by 007 kicking his opponent into the silent but deadly embrace of a tree fork hanging above the bobsleigh track. The solemn image of Blofeld’s legs hanging execution-style below his unmoving body was ruined by Bond’s following quip.

“ _He’s branched off!_ ”

John laughed heartily as Sherlock groaned. “These puns just get worse and worse.”

“Yup.”

However, both their attentions quickly returned to the film as Bond took a tumble down a snowy slope and landed next to a convenient ski lodge. Sherlock smiled softly as a friendly St Bernard approached 007. He lost himself for a moment in the memory of another dog, another time. Still, he wasn’t quite drunk enough to fall into a pit of nostalgia and unhappy reminders of times long past (thankfully).

Luckily for Sherlock, the film moved onto the wedding of James and Teresa Bond (née Countess di Vicenzo née Draco) with all the grace of a… flying bird. _That made no sense_ , Sherlock scolded himself. Shaking his head at his sluggish mind, Sherlock watched as an unexpectedly easy conversation formed between Draco and M, who were somehow not at each other’s throats within moments of first convening, as Bond’s wife charmed the Quatermaster of MI6, and as Moneypenny cried tears of unrequited love that had John looking slightly upset. Sherlock knew he was soft when it came to these films, but really?

Bond and his newly wed wife drove down a lovely looking road along the side of a cliff next to the sea in a very flowery car. John edged closer to Sherlock, looking at him with a worried expression on his face. Normally, Sherlock would know or be able to work out what that meant, but now he could only mirror the expression, a frown reshaping his face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. You’ll see.”

 _Hm. That could mean… many things_ , thought Sherlock absently. They both turned back towards the television.

“ _He loves me._ ”

“ _Instinctively._ ”

“ _Infuriatingly._ ”

“ _Intensely._ ”

“ _In… In…_ ”

“ _In?”_

 _“In._ ”

Sherlock scoffed. They sounded like broken records. John shot him A Look that Sherlock didn’t quite think he merited, given the circumstances. Then again, he was never really the best judge of these things.

“ _Indubitably._ ”

Even in his current state, Sherlock knew what was about to happen when he saw Fräuelein Irma Bunt and Blofeld (wearing a ridiculous neck brace) driving quickly towards the happy couple. Bunt pulled out a gun and fired twelve rounds at the flower-clad car of Bond and his wife. John looked down at the carpet, while Sherlock couldn’t tear his eyes away. A dull horror filled his expression as looked at John.

“There’s a reason 007 should never get married.” John said weakly.

Sherlock’s eyes widened even further, turning slowly back to the mess of James Bond’s married life. He said nothing as Bond, a hardened assassin and ruthless killer, sobbed over the body of his wife.

“That.” Sherlock said flatly, “Was not what I was expecting.”

John just raised his eyebrows before narrowing them at the TV screen. He shook his head. “Downer endings don’t quite fit in the Bond films, but this is another level of awful.” They both glared at the credits that were appearing, accompanied by the insultingly cheerful Bond theme.

“Well.” John spoke after a moment of respectful silence, “That concludes our viewing of the one where Bond gets married but not for long.”

“—But not for long.” Sherlock interrupted as John said exactly the same thing. They stared at each other before both giggling.

“This feels… a bit… out of place.” John stammered through his laughter.

“Relax, John, we’re just laughing after… we watched the heinous murder of James Bond’s bride of less than… seven minutes.” This comment only encouraged more laughter.

Once they had calmed down a bit, John took a deep breath before turning to smile art Sherlock. “Right. Onto the next on then.”

“Another one?” Sherlock grumbled.

“Well, we’re both still conscious, so yes. Another one. _Diamonds are Forever_ , the one I named that blog post after, remember?”

Sherlock did, vaguely. “Ah. Yes. The thing that started this whole affair.”

Shooting him a reproachful but amused look, John tilted his head knowingly. “Admit it – you’ve enjoyed it.”

Sherlock said nothing.

Like a certain smug consulting detective on the days where Scotland Yard was particularly slow, John said nothing, basking in his victory. He crawled forwards, replacing the DVD in the machine with a new one. “After this, we should watch _The Spy Who Loved Me_. Another non-Connery Bond.” John yawned. “That is, if we’re still awake.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock patted the space on the carpet next to him, a silent request. John shook his head and came back to sit beside Sherlock.

As the film began, John and Sherlock happily sang along to the Bond theme music as Sean Connery appeared in a more sophisticated version of the gunbarrel sequence than the one he had originally starred in.

“Dundedun dun dun dun dundedun dun dun dun dundedun dun dun dun dundedun dun dun dun deDON Do do do!”

Both men laughed as their exaggerated humming filled the flat.

Then a man came flying through a picturesque Japanese paper wall panel, followed by an angry James Bond in a white suit, beating information out of the terrified man.

Sherlock could definitely see why John loved these films so much.

 

**HOUR 8**

John had fallen asleep. It had happened sometime between the fight inside the lift outside the apartment of the scarcely-clad, aptly-named diamond smuggler Tiffany Case and 007’s welcome to America, courtesy of the CIA’s own Felix Leiter. He snored softly. A fond smile on his face, Sherlock reached forward to pause the film, then picked John up and moved him onto the sofa before returning to his seat on the carpet and continuing the film. Sherlock cast one last affectionate look at his sleeping friend, then turned his attention toward the hearse carrying James Bond (alive), ‘James Bond’ (deceased) and three comparatively forgettable characters to the most ridiculously named cremation centre in history.

Sherlock watched, fascinated, as Bond went from the inside of a burning coffin to a casino to a hotel room to a nice house with a dead girl in the swimming pool. A few times, he caught himself beginning to make a smart comment or turn his head when he laughed only to remember that John was asleep on the sofa. In those cases, his gaze fell upon the slumbering figure on said sofa and lingered there for a moment before he continued watching the film.

Still, Sherlock couldn’t deny that he was enjoying himself immensely. This might even be his favourite film of the franchise so far. He smiled to himself. John would love his new-found love for James Bond, but hopefully he wouldn’t remember _quite_ how enthusiastic Sherlock had been about them the next morning. That just wouldn’t do; he had a reputation to uphold, after all.

Sherlock grinned.

 

**HOUR 9**

Sherlock was dreaming. Not that he knew this, of course, but the fact remained. Additionally, when he awoke in morning Sherlock would be equally unaware exactly what it was he had dreamed about. Nonetheless.

As far as dreams went, it could have been better, but it could also have been far, far worse. Sherlock Holmes was on the streets of London, doing what he did best: fighting crime. Except suddenly, there was a lot more actual fighting. He was in a lift, wrestling a gun out of the hands of a man whose face he couldn’t see. As his fist made contact with his assailant’s face, once, twice, three times, Sherlock was infinitely grateful for his familiarity with boxing. Fancy glass panelling shattered as he drew back his arm to deliver one final blow. Suddenly—

—Sherlock found himself at a crime scene. There was a woman, dead, lying on her stomach on the bed of a high-end hotel room. He looked around the room, trying to get a pre-emptive idea of what had happened. Something caught his eye, a shine in his peripheral vision. There was something wrong. The body was suddenly covered in paint, gold paint. Sherlock blinked rapidly. That hadn’t been there before. When his eyes stopped moving, the gold paint was gone. Instead, the velvet bed cover had turned into an enormous pile of tiny diamonds. He blinked again. Sherlock opened his eyes, and—

—there was a body, limp and lifeless, in his arms. He was in the driver’s seat of a car and when he looked outside the window, beautiful scenery from the English countryside met his eyes. It was a stark contrast to the man lying dead in his embrace. He knew that face. Sherlock knew who it was, but that wasn’t right, this wasn’t how it was meant to happen, John couldn’t be- Sherlock stopped thinking. “It’s alright.” he told the man in his arms, “It’s quite all right, really.” He choked on his words. “We have all the time in the—

—cigarette smoke and classy alcohol filled Sherlock’s nose. He was in some sort of casino, and his hand was on a foot. So poker, then. That was a game Sherlock was happy to play. As the game progressed, he found himself impressed by particularly daring woman. “I admire your courage, Miss…” he trailed off, waiting for a response. “Adler. Irene Adler.” she informed him. “I admire your luck, Mister…” Sherlock reached up to light the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. “Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.” He could see the gears in her mind turning as Miss Adler contemplated asking him to raise the limit. She opened her mouth and—

—Sherlock was looking directly into the eyes of some kind of sophisticated laser beam, far more powerful than just industrial strength, and far too dangerous to be legal. He watched as a well-dressed, dark haired spider of a man walked away from him. “Do you expect me to talk?” Sherlock inquired, incredulous. The man, Moriarty, he remembered, turned around to face him. “No, Mister Holmes. I expect you to die.” He continued to walk away, and Sherlock racked his brain for something, anything, to say that would get him out of—

—Mike Stamford led Sherlock into an office, a doctor’s office, with a name Sherlock didn’t bother to read plastered neatly onto the front door. There was a quiet but constant noise coming from inside that didn’t sound like a conversation. Mike opened the door. The soft hum of old music filled the small office. A blonde man who had his back turned to them was singing quietly under his breath.

“Underneath the mango tree, my honey and me, can watch for the moon.” Mike looked embarrassed, but Sherlock said nothing, simply listening to the man who Mike claimed was also in need of a flatmate. “Apple, banana and tangerine. La-da-da dee-da-da cocoa bean.” the doctor sung softly, still not registering the presence of his guests.

Sherlock spotted Mike about to say something and wordlessly shushed him. Rolling his eyes, Mike obeyed Sherlock’s ‘request’ (not that Sherlock ever made just ‘requests’).

“When we get married we make them grow, la-da-da-dee da-dum da-da-dum.”

Taking a deep breath and steeling his nerves, Sherlock began to sing. “Underneath the mango tree, my honey and me-”

The man whipped around, blushing profusely. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. You are?”

Mike spoke up. “John, this is a friend of mine-”

“Sherlock Holmes.” He introduced himself. “I told Mike I was looking for a flatmate, and I hear you’re in a similar position. Perhaps we could… figure something out?”

John’s smile was more brilliant than any diamond.

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so. All the continuity errors mentioned by Sherlock are 100% true, as are the posts on [Sherlock's blog](http://thescienceofdeduction.co.uk/forum/page3), and all references to the Bond films are canon (I couldn't make that stuff up if I tried).
> 
> Thank you to [Will](http://love-is-like-love.tumblr.com) and [Tristan](http://parrotname28.tumblr.com) for helping me finish this on time by insisting that I **just do it**.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
